“The Devil is real. And he’s not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he’s a fallen angel, and he used to be God’s favorite.”
You asked me to come along for the night
ride, said I was the only one who knew
how to light up the dark road ahead.
I’m a Banshee screaming down the highway,
but you’re so deep in your own blood
you don’t hear sound escape my throat
as you speed through me and the night.
The rhythm in your ears creates the only
song you wanna hear. Put my wrist through
the window, apologize for how the glass
creates red rivers from my palms
to your seat. You say this wound
was my doing—undoing either way.
Your laughter echoes when I tell you
I expected morning to be five hours
on the horizon.
By Marisa Silva-Dunbar
Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in 24 Neon Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Cabinet of Heed, and Marias At Sampaguitas. She is a contributing writer at Pussy Magic. Her work is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Sybil Journal, and The Charles River Journal. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris